


Narcotic Affections

by Berriy



Category: Political RPF - Russian 21st c., Political RPF - US 21st c.
Genre: Anal Sex, M/M, Sexual Content, don't look at me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-17
Updated: 2015-04-17
Packaged: 2018-03-23 09:32:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3763096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Berriy/pseuds/Berriy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He wants more than what he gives.</p>
<p>Not all love is easy to define. Especially not the one of Barack Obama and Vladimir Putin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Narcotic Affections

Everything about him feels wrong.

He caresses and whispers small nothings into Vladimir’s head. Filling him with promises that ‘it’s safe to let go, its fine Vlad’. His small careful touches to his cheek feel like poison and when the stinger seeps into pale flesh it’s quick and nigh painless but maybe he’s just become numb to it.

Barrack trails small kisses down Vladimir’s neck making him let out a suppressed little grunts as if he’s trying to keep his pleasure intact. As if he’s trying to say this euphoria isn’t real, _you aren’t real_. But Obama is all too good at tearing down his walls. He bites down on Vlad’s neck, just a nibble, but he lets out a shaky groan nonetheless. He’s still restraining himself.

“Vlad?”

Obama looks back to the Russian searching his eyes for a response that he knows his words won’t give. Under that scrutinizing gaze Vladimir sucks in a short breath and averts his eyes. He can’t look into those knowing brown eyes for too long. They’re too caring, too _sympathetic_.

He knows what the American is waiting for, this little game that they play. He’s waiting for Vladimir’s okay, for his personal hell to break loose. And their words are never clear, it’s just the way that they are, it’s how they work together. They communicate through hidden meanings and glances, speeches alluding to one another, political actions done in regard to one another. It’s their own unique dance. Their romance. But he’s careful enough to call it anything but that. He’s smart enough. This isn’t a romance, it’s just a game. Obama knows his aversion to the act, but he also knows his desire and even though it was only just a glance that he caught of Putin’s eyes he knew they were burning with it.

The Russian exhales with another shaky breath and fixes his gaze onto the American’s shoulder.

“Don’t call me Vlad.”

Obama smirks and begins to undo his buttons.

“Okay, Putin.”

\--

It’s wrong.

He’s done this so many times but it never changes.

There’s something there something blocking Vladimir from the enjoyment he knows he should feel and whenever he orgasms the sensation is so different so _alien_ from anything he’s ever felt before and he loves it but he can’t enjoy it. Not to its fullest.

There’s something blocking him and Barrack can feel it, he’s always known it and he’s always there for him regardless. No matter what, no matter how distant Vladimir may seem Barrack holds him and loves him anyway. And sometimes when nights are long and days rough, Obama takes him into his tender embrace and Vladimir allows a moment of satiety.

While Obama cherishes their moments, Putin relinquishes.

He wakes up head throbbing and knees aching and he always leaves before Obama can say goodbye.

\--

Everything is wrong.

Barrack doesn’t love him, he never has. It’s not just an affair; it doesn’t feel like it’s _just_ a betrayal, to their wives, their countries, their morals. There is something more to it and no matter how much Vladimir lets off like he disdains it he finds himself coming back for more. And more. And more. And eventually he doesn’t know what’s addiction and what’s real. It’s narcotic.

Barrack traces bites up his thighs, always the bites and little kisses with him. He starts small and simple and builds up the moment until Vlad can’t stand it anymore and he’s squirming beneath him begging to just start it, _get it going Barrack_. But that just the way his Barrack is except no, he isn’t _his_ Barrack, he never was. He has to remind himself, whenever he takes him into his mouth, that familiar stroke of his hand on his cock, he has to remember. Barrack doesn’t love him and he shouldn’t, at least that’s what Vlad’s head was saying. He just wished that his heart was screaming the same thing.

He gasps and moans and the little sounds Obama elicits from his throat serve as Putin’s bass for his own bittersweet symphony. His lips are so warm and they engulf Vladimir in his sins.

But somewhere in his he know that he can’t end it, no matter how much he want Barrack to love him back he’ll never bring himself to stop this. He loves it too much. He _needs_ __this.

He leaves so early because he can’t face him. He can’t face his lust.

\--

Wrong.

It’s hard to find places to fuck. And that’s what it is, a simple fuck, hollow sex. It’s not making love, not sleeping together because he tries so hard not to dream in his arms, it’s nothing.

They’re so different from each other and sometimes Vlad wonders if Barrack is just as addicted to him as he is.

They get their moments, after meetings in corners and secluded rooms. They try to keep it as secret as possible but when Obama finishes its loud and arousing. He can’t contain himself but people can be paid off. It works that way. He talks a lot during sex too. Sometimes it’s too fast to comprehend it all but as Vladimir pushes in and out of him he finds it turning into their anthem. His pauses in his speech are Vlad’s rhythm and he can bring out the most obscene cries from that monotone voice as he slams harder and harder into him with every one.

‘Yes’ becomes an answer, a plea, a question, and a love song.

‘Yes we can.’

Obama’s face twists into nirvana and he comes undone releasing himself onto his suit and he can’t handle himself, he can’t handle the sensation.

The Russian’s heart beats so violently at these moments, and in the past he mistook it for heart palpation's. Now he mistakes it for disgust.

Putin finishes within his ~~lover~~ , but they never linger in the afterglow and it gathers dust like an old relic. Because that’s what it is, something beautiful left to rot but found and never used again except for the purposes of examination. Vladimir examines himself with ferocity and he washes himself clean until his skin turns to a flaming red from all his rubbing nonexistent dirt off. He can’t wash off his heart beat.

Putin leaves first, straightening out his clothing with a quick fix to his hair. He doesn’t look back.

\--

“Why don’t you ever say goodbye?”

What can he say? His thoughts? How he _feels_? The Russian doesn’t answer. He can’t.

“ _Vlad_.” Obama says slightly annoyed and he grabs onto the cuff of Putin’s jacket. “ _Please_.”

He turns Vladimir around to face him and he wants an answer, and oh god does Vlad want to give it. He wants to let out every unheard, every hidden emotion to this God of a man, but he cant. He can’t bring himself to that commitment, to a confession that he needs him in his life.

He wants him. He wants him so much it’s maddening.

“Vlad?” He lets out an answer just above a whisper.

“Don’t call me Vlad.”

Obama stares at him for a moment, seeing if this is what he really wants, but Putin stares right back into that tender gaze and he knows now, he’s certain of it.

“Please, Barrack.” And there something that breaks in his eyes.

Obama pushes Vlad onto his desk in a sloppy kiss sliding his jacket off his shoulders. He breaks the kiss for a second to throw both of their jackets onto the floor as far away from them as possible. His hips rock forward grinding onto the Russian, his humble pleas for more friction filling his ears and he is all too ready to satisfy him. Their erections press against one another and they both let out discomforted groans. It’s too much and Vlad’s not going to wait for a buildup this time.

He nearly destroys Obama’s shirt, ripping it open revealing his tone stomach and broad shoulders switching them in the process with Vladimir on top and Barrack laying down on the bottom. He presses his lips to Obama’s nipple and sucks and he _whimpers_ at the contact. Vlad tweaks the other puckered nipple with his hand while Obama reaches to undo his buttons because he’s not about to ruin his shirt unlike _some_ people.

The Russian props him up on the desk and begins to remove his pants in a desperate attempt for _something_ but Obama reaches for his face and leans in for a passionate kiss, cupping his jaw and he nibbles and sucks at his bottom lip.

The pants come flying off after a few moments of kissing and his boxers are at his knees. Vladimir frees his throbbing erection and stops Obama’s hand before he can postpone this any longer. He reaches for a drawer containing a bottle of lube and he applies it up and down his member and around the American’s puckered asshole. He groans out a small “Vlad..”

And the Russian squeezes his ass cheeks. “ _Don’t_ call me Vlad.”

Barrack loops his arms around Vladimir’s neck and presses his forehead to his and breathes in deep.

“ _Putin_.”

He lines up his cock with the President’s entrance and begins to push in. Barrack gasps loudly at the sensation of being taken yet again. It’s slow at first but reassuring. Putin feels him engorge his large member inch by inch and it’s burning. He keeps going until he’s hilt deep and he stays like that for a bit, taking in the body beneath him, watching how his chest rises and falls and how his eyes gloss over him in such hunger.

_It’s wrong._

“ _Move_.”

And he does. He pulls out only to slam back in making the American scream out in pleasure. The long slow thrusts don’t let up and Putin has a thing for being too gentle. His mouth connects with Obamas neck and he sucks on hard as his hips meet his over and over again. He’s still restraining himself.

Obama lets out a frustrated groan. “Faster.” He pants and there is so much want in there alone.

Putin looks on him deliriously. “Are you sure?”

And Obama squeezes his arms and pleads nodding quickly.

He wants this and Vladimir wants to see him squirming.

He picks up the pace and starts ramming into him hard and faster, the president hugging his girth as he widens and closes for him. Every push forward Obama’s hips meet, savoring every moment they are fully connected. He feels his lover everywhere around him engulfing him in ecstasy.

Vladimir just keeps going faster, speeding up with every thrust and something unleashes in him and he fucks Barrack like he’s never done before. He tightens around him and his cries for more keep getting louder and his orgasm is picking up.

“Vlad!.. ah!”

He doesn’t correct him this time, He can't it's too much. He keeps fucking him over the edge and back until he lets out deep within Obama hitting every hidden spot. He fills him up the brim and collapses on top of him. He doesn’t try to leave this time.

“I love you.” Barrack pants and Putin stares at him wide eyed.

“Barrack..?”

“I love you, Vlad.” He says it more asserting now, like he has the answers to all the world’s questions and maybe he does, to Vladimir’s world at least.

He hesitates for a moment. “I loved you too, Barrack.” They smile.

And everything about him feels wrong because he’s never known what right is.

But he’s too caught up in the moment to care.

**Author's Note:**

> I regret nothing


End file.
